


Lemons, Lemonade, Mud, Rain

by voleuse



Category: White House Down (2013)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 11:55:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13053507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voleuse/pseuds/voleuse
Summary: It wasn’t quite the promotion he was expecting.





	Lemons, Lemonade, Mud, Rain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mayachain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayachain/gifts).



> Set after the events of the movie.

**i. _three days in shards_**  
The thrum of Marine One faded the background of Cale’s mind as they lifted away from Emily and Melanie, and the scene of Raphelson being dragged past the press, and he wondered if he’d made a horrible mistake.

“You haven’t made a horrible mistake,” Sawyer said, and Cale managed not to startle when the president clapped him on the shoulder. “She’s a strong kid. You should be proud.”

“Yeah. Yeah,” Cale replied. He looked at Sawyer, really _looked_ at him. “Hey. I’m sure they’re fine, too.” 

“I know.” Sawyer looked away, out the window, his hands twitching against the hem of his jacket. “I just...I need to see them. Or,” he shook his head, “I need them to see me.”

The chatter on the radio shifted in tone. Cale sat forward, realizing he didn’t know the names of any of the agents here. He cleared his throat, and Sawyer gave him a measured look. “Hey,” Sawyer said. “Promise I’ll introduce you after.”

Cale nodded. “I’ll take you up on that, sir.”

The chopper descended, and Cale could see a small group, surrounded by the blue-red strobe of the pretty impressive barricade surrounding them. Sawyer tugged at his lapels. “You’ve never met Alison, have you?”

“No, sir,” Cale replied. “I, uh. She seems great, when I’ve seen her on TV.”

“She is great,” Sawyer said, then chuckled. “And terrifying.” He cast a glance at Cale’s stained clothing, then down at himself. “She probably won’t mind. You know. All of this. Given the circumstances”

“Yeah, sure,” Cale said. He ran a hand over his head, getting more aware of himself every second, grime and blood and bruises and all.

“I’ll introduce you again,” Sawyer said. “When you’re properly kitted out. Proper hero.” His smile, for a second, took on a familiar campaign shine.

“Or maybe even just after a shower,” Cale muttered, but by then they were landing, and it took him and two other agents to convince Sawyer to maybe stay inside the chopper and let the First Family come to him.

 

**ii. _you step one foot into the room_**  
Cale was maybe four days into the job when he walked into Carol’s office and sighed as he dropped into a chair. “You were right. I mostly suck at this."

Carol swiveled away from her computer. “I know.” She smiled. “Mostly.”

“Mostly?” He laughed.

“I’ve been doing this for a while and,” Carol tipped her head, the way she usually did when Cale was feeling especially dense, “he trusts you. He knows you’ve got his back. He’s not just secure.” She paused. “He’s...he’s been through something horrifying, _with_ you, and you came out the other side with him. That means something.”

“Okay.” Cale nodded. “And all that other stuff about how I was kind of insubordinate and bad at details and--

“I mean, don’t get me wrong,” Carol interrupted. “You’re a long way from sitting in this chair. But _he_ believes in you. And it makes a difference.”

“All right,” he said. “Thanks, Carol.”

She returned to her keyboard. “But be early for the next briefing, okay?” She turned her _I mean it_ scowl at him, and he raised his hands, surrendering. 

He made for the door, feeling slightly better, and Carol called out, “And tell Emily we’re doing tacos on Friday, okay?”

Cale did his very best not to grin as he walked out the door.

 

**iii. _you lose your voice to static_**  
Tuesday nights, the kitchen would send up a platter of wings, curly fries, slightly burned, a six-pack of beer from the nation of whichever world leader Sawyer would be speaking to next, and a six-pack from whichever state Sawyer would be visiting next. 

Cale and Sawyer would sit in the residence, wearing Alison-ordered sweatpants and college T-shirts, and they’d queue up whatever football games ESPN was replaying that night.

“Congress decide whether you’re really president yet or not?” Cale asked. The wings were spicier than usual. He took a gulp of Molson Blue. 

“Nah,” Sawyer replied. He picked at the label of the Eliot Ness. “Another week, maybe.”

“Oklahoma?” 

“Maine, if you can believe it.” Sawyer leaned back in his easy chair. 

“Huh,” Cale said. He reached for the remote, toggled between the Ravens and the Pats. 

“Yeah.” Sawyer took another swig of his beer. "That surveillance video of me with the rocket launcher is still pretty popular, though."

"It does look pretty badass, sir."

And then they’d sit, mostly quiet, mostly intent on the game. It was nice.

 

**iv. _one fork, one knife, one spoon_**  
First Sunday of the month was pizza and game night and, as usual, Cale walked into the West Wing to find Sawyer and Emily in a trivia stand-off with Donnie. Instead of announcing himself, he rolled back on his heels for a second, watching as Emily tipped her head back, laughing as Sawyer mixed up Louisa Adams with Abigail Adams.

Alison came up beside him. “Donnie’s shift was over forty minutes ago, for the record.”

“This,” Cale said, eyeing the trio with a tidbit of anxiety, “is my life now.”

Alison snorted. “Our life, actually.”

“Yeah, sorry,” Cale said, “I didn’t mean to--”

“John.” Alison swatted him on the wrist, interrupting his apology. Emily was laughing, and Sawyer was doing his fake-stern-face at Donnie, and Cale didn’t even startle when Alison bumped shoulders with him. “Thanks to you,” she said, and it was in that tone that always made him feel a little guilty, and a little proud.

“Hey,” Sawyer called out, turning his fake-stern-face at them. “What kind of bodyguard are you?”

“The worst,” Cale said, and he took a few steps forward and collapsed into the sofa. “And off-duty.” Emily sat next to him, turning her pleading-teenager-eyes to maximum. “And looking forward to pizza and--”

“And Scrabble,” Emily said.

“And bowling,” Sawyer added, inflecting it into a question. Emily batted her eyelashes for special effect.

“And bowling.” Cale threw his hands up. “Call your mom, Emily.” And she yelped, and hugged him, and yeah, maybe he did kind of feel like a proper hero, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Title and headings adapted from Jen Currin’s poem, “Stage Directions for the Stray.”


End file.
